


The Last Confession

by melbie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Blood, Gen, Mild Gore, Murder Family, kinda sorta just a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melbie/pseuds/melbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My name is Abigail Hobbs. My father was Garret Jacob Hobbs, also known as the Minnesota Shrike. And if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Confession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RipperShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipperShipper/gifts).



Abigail Hobbs snapped shut the clasp of her last suitcase and sunk into the worn hospital bed. Her worldly possessions, few that they were, had been divided, compacted, and shoved into submission. Now there was nothing left.

Except...

There was one final task she needed to complete. If there was any justice in the world, it was not too late. She knew Will was coming for her. She knew Hannibal was coming for him. She knew full well and with little doubt that her life was leaning on its last legs.

Hannibal, Will, and Abigail's lives were twisted and intertwined together like the spinning threads of spiders' webs hanging round her wrists and throat. Silky, sticky shackles tying her to their madness, and them to her own insanity. She could practically feel her mental health slipping through her fingers. With every secret she unveiled a little piece of her was whittled away until the raw interior was exposed and left to blister in the sunlight.

She unsheathed the weapons that would win her the war; a yellow legal pad in one hand and ballpoint pen in the other.

All she could do was write and pray. Pray to a god that would still take her.

* * *

 

"To whom it may concern,

"My name is Abigail Hobbs. My father was Garret Jacob Hobbs, also known as the Minnesota Shrike. And if you're reading this, I'm probably dead.

"That's probably an exaggeration. Sorry. I don't know exactly what'll happen to me after today. The truth is like a gun, right? You point it in the right direction and if your aim's true your target will fall dead on the ground. But this truth is like a rusted shotgun that's going to recoil and blow my head off at any second.

"Maybe you're reading this and I'm dead or incarcerated. I really don't know. But if there's one thing I do know, it's that this letter is my chance to clear the air.

"A crime writer named Freddie Lounds wanted me to share my story and write a true crime book. I still can't believe I almost let her. My story isn't meant for retired law enforcement workers yearning for a taste of their old exciting lives, or middle aged women and their book clubs. I have to do this my way.

"This is my confession. You are my judge, my jury, my prosecution, and my executioner.

"But you don't want to hear my confession, do you? You want my sins; all the gritty scandalous details. Well, here's a sin for you:

"Back in middle school, my friend Marissa and I smoked a cigarette behind her house. It was horrible; the smoke tore at our throats and made our eyes stream with tears, but we didn't care. When her mom found the stub among her roses, we blamed the gardener. He was promptly fired.

"Did you like how I did that? It's called subverting the reader's expectations. Giving them a banal fact when they're expecting a big, juicy scandal. I wish I could see your face when you read that. Did your eyes fall, did your mouth droop, or did you make a little sound of disappointment and impatience?

"My father was patient. Calculating. He was a hunter through and through. Here's something the newspapers probably left out. Did you know what he did with the girls he murdered? He shaved off their hair and stuffed the pillows on our couch. He made knives from their bones and putty from their sinew. He butchered them, cooked them, and fed them to his family. Meaning me. He  _fed_  me the same girls I had chatted up at the train stations and bus stops and mall food courts.

"Are you disgusted? Did a little part of your stomach curl at the thought? Did you taste bile rising in your throat and acid sloshing around in your stomach?

"Don't worry, I understand. He used to make me practice on deer. I remember how it felt. Staring into the lifeless beetle-black eyes, gripping its fur, and sliding my knife along the gentle creature's belly. Even though I wore gloves I could feel the heat leaving her when the blood spilled over my hands. If I closed my eyes I could imagine the dripping liquid was soapy water and that I was simply helping my mom wash the dishes."

* * *

 

Abigail dropped her pen. It had taken several minutes for her to notice that she'd been gripping it so hard the plastic cap was biting into her hand. The red indentation was close to bleeding. And that was the last thing she needed to see at that moment.

She crossed to the bathroom and splashed some water on her face. The droplets clung to her nose and fell on her trembling lips. A gaunt, twisted reflection stared back at her, breathing hard and clenching back the urge to punch something. Her knuckles yearned for pain's sweet release.

But she couldn't. Not yet. There was still work to be done.

* * *

 

"Hunters have to honor every part of their kill, otherwise it's just murder. That's what he used to tell me. Honor every part. The meat, the skin, the hair, the muscles; everything that makes us human. Break us down and we're only a sum of parts. We're built cheap and we unravel at the slightest touch.

"But you don't want to hear the philosophy. You want the truth. So here it is.

"I stabbed Nicholas Boyle when he confronted me about his sister. He shoved me against a wall and the knife I was holding found his stomach on instinct.

"Worse yet, I helped my father become the Minnesota Shrike. I reeled the girls in and he took their lives.

"And I'm sorry. For all the pain I caused, for the families I've torn apart, and for letting my father commit these atrocities.

"Believe it or not, my father was good to me and my mom. He loved us and I loved him. That's why I helped him. Of course, love didn't stop him from murdering Mom and nearly slitting my throat.

"I won't justify his actions nor mine. I won't make excuses and I won't beg for your mercy, oh faceless reader. I know my sins. You just finished reading them.

"But maybe, just maybe, I can atone for my misdeeds.

"There's a man who assists the FBI. His name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He plays the part of an innocent; a brilliant, young psychiatrist who wants to see justice done and heal the world.

"I'd like to think that I've given you no reason to distrust me, my reader. That's why if there's one thing you'll believe from this letter, just one thing at all, I want it to be this.

"Will Graham is not a threat to society; he would not kill without reason. The real monster is Dr. Lecter.

"You wouldn't know it if you met him. That's his disguise. He's an angler fish, luring you in with the bright light his charm, his refined manners, and his posh accent. You won't know you're about to be eaten until it's too late.

"When I look into his eyes I see my father. Not just because he acted in place of my missing paternal figure. When I look at Dr. Lecter I see a murderer who kills not because it's fun, but because he believes in it.

"I'd like to give you a list of his sins, but I don't know them. All I know is that he is the man who called my house one fateful morning to warn my father that the FBI was coming. His voice was the starting pistol that set my father on a murdering rampage. He caused the first domino to fall.

"I see my father in Dr. Lecter and he must be stopped."

* * *

 

Abigail fingered the scarf at her neck while she contemplated the consequences of her declaration of war against Dr. Lecter. Her fingertips brushed against the raised scar, making her flinch.

The scar was healing at a steady rate, but it would never fade. Not completely. She knew that even if the white, raised skin healed over the mirror would tell a different tale. The scar would follow her to the end of her days, accompanied by the bite of a steel knife and her father's hot breath in her ear. His whispered apologies and fervent breathing.

Her father had been a monster. The moment he slit her throat was the moment she knew it for sure. No amount of hunting philosophy or mental sickness would excuse him. But he wasn't the only nightmare on the street, and she wasn't about to let herself be damned to hell without exposing him in the only way she could.

Confidence surged through her fingertips as she carved the finale to her symphony.

* * *

 

"So you see, reader, I'm not all so bad. And see how well you know me now. Maybe we could've been friends or acquaintances or neighbors.

"Maybe you're all I have left.

"My family is dead. My home is a crime scene. My friends are afraid of me, except my best friend, Marissa. Only because she's dead. The closest thing I have to family is a mentally unhinged FBI agent and his sociopathic psychiatrist.

"All I have left are my words. Believe them or not, it's your choice."

* * *

* * *

 

 

_So ended the final testament of Abigail Hobbs._

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter reached the final lines of the letter and flipped the page over to check for additional notes. Nothing. His long fingers lightly swept over the scratched letters, clearly written in haste and with little preparation._

_Such a brave girl. Foolish, pointless, and a waste of effort and tears. But brave._

_Without a second thought he flung the yellow legal pad pages into the fireplace and stoked the fire vigorously. He watched the shriveling corners fold like butterfly wings. It didn't take long for the paper to melt in a curl of smoke. In the shrinking light of sunset, he could've sworn he saw Abigail's face in the flames, her features traced in gray on the smoldering logs._

_And then she was gone. Her essence was destroyed and her words turned to ash. There was truly no trace of Abigail Hobbs left on their mortal plane._

_As the final tendrils of smoke faded into the chimney, Hannibal eased back into his chair and stared at his own pale hand. The skin's memory held the outline of her cheek and he could still smell the salt of her tears rolling slowly over his fingers._

" _Farewell, Abigail," he murmured to the flames. "I only wish you had not been so clever."_


End file.
